Touching the Edge of Your Skin
by NotMyShoes
Summary: Beyond this veil woven with salt tears, this mysterious shadow trapped in flight, he waits for me. I so desperately want to just reach out, even for an instant, and touch him. I just want to let my fingers rest on his pale white hand, here, in this moment


Beyond. Beyond the fluttering black silk, opaque yet iridescent, solid, yet liquid in the way it slides over the cold, thin air. Beyond this veil woven with salt tears, this mysterious shadow trapped in flight, he waits for me.

The veil belongs to no one. To nothing. It knows not of the trials and tribulations of petty, foolish men. It lends no ears to the pleading of loved ones. Its silent domain seems to echo with the footsteps of the leaving, the cries of the left.

But he waits for me.

Strands of glimmering raven hair falling messily over his drawn face. I do not expect to be graced with the countenance that once held the envy and longing of all who laid eyes upon it, but the gaunt hollows of his cheeks are shocking to me. No longer a face worth lusting after, a body broken, a soul withering away.

But I go to him.

I stare into the charcoal pools through which he sees his dark, shadowy world and wonder what thoughts now dart across his once restless mind. I can sense he too is trying to perceive my emotions, but I myself do not know what feelings spend their fleeting moments behind my eyes as I gaze back at him.

I love this man.

I love the way he looks at me. Even now as his tired eyes penetrate the depths of my soul, tearing apart every protective fiber of secrecy I had held within my being, as though my chest were pierced by an arrow, sending the contents of my heart spilling upon the floor for all to see.

There is a seat across from him. Neither chair, nor stool, but rather the furniture of those who have entered this arch, behind the veil, forever taking their leave of the living world. He motions to it, and as it sink into it a cold, black marble box comes to meet me, sending a chill through my body as I make contact with its icy surface. He continues to watch me as I sit, staring intently, in a way that would unnerve anyone who sat before him.

Yet not I.

He opens his mouth, as if to speak, and for the first time I notice a streak of disappointment flash across his dark, dark eyes. His mouth, lips chapped and raw from the cold showcasing a surprising set of perfect teeth, white as milk, remains open but nor sound comes out. I know there is so much we want to say to one another, now, in this moment, but I cannot bring myself to break the silence. I am, as is he, unable to find the words I want to so eloquently lay before him.

So nothing is said. Not yet.

We sit here, he and I, for what feels like hours, each tracing the features he has not laid eyes upon for the longest time. I know what I see when I look at him, but what does he see in me? Does he see his friend of long ago? Does he see that faithful member of the Order, ready to fight, ready to die. Or does he see what has become of me in the years since he journeyed beyond the veil. Does he see this man, a shell of his former self, of those things he knew me to be?

"I've missed you."

These words, escaping quickly from his mouth are the first sound I've heard since I stepped through the arch. Through the veil. I want to tell him I've missed him too, but I can't. My throat closes up and my brain shuts down. I cannot speak.

"I didn't want to see you here," he says.

Here, on this side of the veil. The side of the lonely, of the dead, of those who have left. Those who have walked to the gallows only to have their own fate pull the lever and send the trapdoor flying open. This isn't what I wanted either, but what's done is done. And now I'm here. With him.

We sit and stare again, each second passing so slowly it's torturous, the kind of agony no curse, no agent of hell could possibly set upon me.

He opens his mouth again, but can't manage to produce anything but a few guttural sounds, as though he's suffocating here, in the dim light, gasping for air. More stuttering then…my name.

"Remus," it's whisper soft, yet it seems to ring from every corner of the earth, echoing in my ears, bouncing through my tired brain.

A slight smile has tipped the corner of his lips, his eyes lighten and I'm sure mine have done the same. I want to hold him, I want to kiss him. I so desperately want to just reach out, even for an instant, and touch him. I just want to let my fingers rest on his pale white hand, here, in this moment.

So I do.


End file.
